


always summer

by yennefers



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Angst, Codependency, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, North Dakota is a slur, less slowburn and more Jesus Christ It Has Been Thirty Years. You Are So Annoying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:00:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26052298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yennefers/pseuds/yennefers
Summary: The things Mac and Dennis do when they're alone, from 1994 to 2019.
Relationships: Mac McDonald/Dennis Reynolds
Comments: 24
Kudos: 139





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all my macden prompt fills in one place! if u are the anon who requested this three literal months ago..... bro i am so sorry. i hope better late than never still applies. these fics are ordered chronologically & (sort of?) fit together in the same universe, if u want to read them that way. if u don’t they also work as oneshots. some of them are a couple of years old now so they’re a little rough around the edges. if you want to see the prompt the fic was based on, click the year. thank u for sticking w me thru this essay of an author’s note & i hope you're safe wherever u are ♡ xoxo gossip rose

[ _1997_ ](https://greenfinches.tumblr.com/post/183890932217/the-bro-what-if-we-kissed-but-like-as-an-april)

_  
_ "You want me to what?"

"I want you to kiss me," Dennis repeats impatiently. "In front of Dee. Tomorrow. Keep up."

Mac chokes on his mouthful of coke. Dennis thumps him on the back as he wheezes.

It’s unusually warm for this time of year: warm enough that they decided to stop by the convenience store on their walk home. Mac’s white school shirt is stuck uncomfortably to his back. They’re sat on the curb in the shade, trading the coke can back and forth, and naturally Dennis just had to go and ruin the relative peace of it all.

"Why?" Mac croaks, once his windpipe finally clears. Dennis rolls his eyes.

"Because," he says, like he’s stating the obvious, "she keeps calling me gay. Which, first of all - bullshit. And second, it’s just plain hypocritical, ‘cause we both saw her and Ingrid Nelson behind the bike shed last week-"

"Don’t make me think about that, man," Mac complains, wrinkling his nose. "C’mon -"

"I know, I know," Dennis says. "Mac, I _know_ , that’s my whole point. Dee is way gayer than me. Clearly."

"But, if you…" Mac frowns. "Hold on. Where does the kissing fit into this?"

Dennis shoves his shoulder, looking exasperated.

"We’re gonna trick her, all right? For April fools. We’ll let her think she’s right and then rub it in her face."

"So it’s a fake kiss," Mac says, doubtfully. Dennis claps him on the shoulder.

"Exactly."

"A fake kiss," Mac repeats. "To prove you’re straight."

" _Exactly_." Dennis sounds satisfied. "Now you’re getting it."

 _I’m really not,_ Mac thinks, but he knows better than to say that to Dennis out loud. He ducks his head, looking down the sidewalk as he kicks halfheartedly at a stray pebble.

"Dennis," he says. "Den, it’s not - look, it’s a good plan, whatever, but I don’t -"

"I can’t do this alone, dude," Dennis points out. "This is gonna take two guys to pull off."

Mac decides to risk glancing up at him. He immediately regrets it, because Dennis's solemn eyes look stupidly blue in this light. It’s distracting.

"So." Dennis raises his eyebrows. "Are you in?"

Mac swallows.

"Fine," he mutters, as though he could ever say anything else, and when Dennis grins at him it’s like the sun coming out; warm, perfect, and blinding to look at. He slings an arm around Mac’s neck, dragging him in closer so they’re pressed together, side by side, and then he steals the coke can out of Mac’s hands.

*

The warm weather sticks around for a little while after sunset. Charlie’s got his bedroom window propped open to let the breeze in, and the balmy night air has sunk into the room like honey.

Mac likes Charlie’s room. Charlie sleeps up in the attic, and he doesn’t have a bed frame but his mattress has always been more than big enough for both of their bodies, from seven ‘til seventeen, and the air always smells faintly like weed and the nice fabric softener Mrs Kelly washes sheets with. It’s a nice place to hang out. Mac doesn’t like Charlie all that much right now, though.

"Dude," Charlie groans. Mac kicks him firmly in the shins.

"Shut up."

" _Dude_." He’s shaking his head now, wordless, laughing up at the ceiling. "This is so -"

"It makes sense when Dennis explains it!" Mac says defensively.

"Sure," says Charlie, drawing the vowels out. He settles back on the mattress again, closing his eyes.

"It does," Mac mutters. He flops down too, defeated, and Charlie mumbles something as he reaches out and pets haphazardly at Mac’s hair.

"What?"

"Tell it me again. ‘Cause I’m not getting it."

"I kiss Dennis," Mac explains patiently. "In front of Dee. And then Dee thinks she’s right, and that Dennis is gay, except she _isn’t_ right, and we’re gonna make fun of her for it, because it’s an April fools’ joke. That make sense?"

Charlie makes a thoughtful sort of sound. He kicks his legs around, the way he does when he’s thinking something over, and then he says, "so it’s… it’s like, a fake kiss. You guys are just gonna fake kiss?"

"Yeah," Mac says, relief flooding through him in a warm wave. "And fake kissing isn’t gay, bro. That’s the whole point."

"I guess."

Charlie’s tone suggests that this is about as convinced as he’s gonna get. Mac sighs, sitting up and tugging the comforter over them both.

"It’s not a big deal," he says quietly. "It’s a joke. Dee’s face is gonna be hilarious."

"Whatever." Charlie shrugs, muffling a yawn into his elbow. "Quit hogging the blanket."

They slip into silence for a little while after that. Moonlight falls in a thin line across the floor and Mac watches, his heart too strangely full and fast to sleep, as the width of it spreads out and shifts ever so slowly.

"Charlie," he whispers. There’s a questioning hum from the other side of the mattress.

"What?"

"D’you…" Mac swallows. "Do you really think it’s weird?"

"I never said it was weird, dude," Charlie mumbles. It sounds like he’s talking into a pillow. "I just don’t get it. That’s all."

Mac sighs.

"Yeah," he says quietly, picking at his thumbnail. "I don’t either."

He hears the rustle of Charlie shifting next to him, and then feels a hand tapping his thigh.

"S’gonna be fine." Charlie already sounds half asleep. "Just go with it."

"You think?"

"Mhm," Charlie says, ever eloquent. "Yup. All you gotta do is kiss him, dude."

"Easy for you to say," Mac mutters. Charlie pats his leg again.

"Yeah, well." He yawns. "You look always like you wanna do that anyway."

"I do _not_ ," Mac snaps, his heartbeat leaping up into his throat - but Charlie’s hand is already slipping away and his breathing is evening out. He’s asleep in seconds. Mac doesn’t follow him for a long time.

*

At 6:45, Mac brushes his teeth. 7:45, he brushes them again, then swills his mouth out with mouthwash. By 8:30 he’s progressed to staring hopelessly at himself in the bathroom mirror, caught in an endless cycle of ruffling and un-ruffling his hair.

"Dude," Charlie calls through the door.

"One second," Mac yells back - he combs his fingers frantically through his fringe again, trying to keep it from flopping down -

"Nope," Charlie says, barging in and waving his hands like he’s trying to scare pigeons off a lawn. "Dude, c’mon. It’s Dennis. He’s seen you at, like. Every stage of a hangover. And I really need to piss."

"Gross, Charlie."

Charlie just shoves him out into the hallway.

"Have fun!" he says, sounding far too chipper for 9 in the morning, and then Mac’s left staring in vain at the bathroom door as it clicks shut.

"Asshole," he mutters.

Mac’s walked to Dennis and Dee’s place about a hundred times. He knows the route so well that he doesn’t even have to think about it, his feet automatically doing all the work - which turns out to be terrible, because it leaves Mac’s mind free to think about what he’s about to do.

It isn’t gay, he reminds himself. It’s a joke. Two hours from now they’ll be laughing about it. It doesn’t _mean_ anything. He repeats it like a prayer, and by the time he’s reached the back door he’s just about managed to get the nervous energy in his body under control.

"Hey," Dennis says, opening the door before he has time to knock. "You’re late."

The tightness in Mac’s chest jolts back into overdrive.

"Sorry," he says. It comes out weirdly hoarse, but if Dennis picks up on it he doesn’t say anything - he just looks around furtively before he steps back to let Mac inside.

They end up in the big foyer by the staircase. Mac barely has the awareness to notice, because he can’t stop looking at Dennis's face: his sharp features and the determined furrow between his brow. The way a curl of dark hair has ended up in front of his eyes.

"Okay," Dennis whispers. "So. She’s getting ready to go out, which means we’ve got a couple of minutes before she comes downstairs. You remember the plan?"

"Yeah, but I-"

"Good," Dennis says. He claps Mac on the shoulder. Mac starts counting down from two hundred, looking down studiously at the carpet, and right when he hits ninety seven the floorboards above them start to creak. Dennis reaches out to tap the back of his hand and nods, stepping forward - they’re practically nose to nose. Dennis's breath is hot on his mouth. All Mac has to do is lean in.

Another second passes. And another.

"What are you waiting for, asshole?" Dennis hisses. Dee’s footsteps are getting louder and louder and Mac feels like he’s shaking all over, like his heart is about to beat itself right out of his chest.

" _Mac_ ," Dennis snaps, clearly struggling to keep his voice at a whisper. Mac cuts him off.

"I haven’t done this before, all right? So I - I don’t know how to -"

Dennis's expression clears a little.

"Oh," he says. "Wait, you’ve never…?"

Mac shuts his eyes and shakes his head. He can feels his cheeks burning hot.

"I thought you kissed Kitty Turner last summer."

"I made that up."

He keeps his eyes closed as he says it, trying to take the edge off the humiliation. Dee’s footsteps are practically on top of them now and Mac has never in his life, not once, wished he didn’t exist as much as he does right now. Dennis isn’t saying anything, and Mac’s about to step back and call the whole thing off when suddenly, without warning, Dennis's hands are cupping his jaw, his thumbs stroking in slow circles.

"That’s okay," he murmurs. "Mac, it’s fine. Just do what I do."

In the end, they time it just right.

"Oh, what the hell?" Dee’s voice says, exasperated. "Seriously, Dennis, if you two are gonna be gay, can you at least do it in your room-"

Dennis's mouth is pressed gently against his, barely there. His lips are dry but soft. They taste faintly of cherry lip balm. He pulls back for a second and Mac’s heart starts to sink - but then he leans in again, and this time he’s surer, with a little more pressure, his hands still on Mac’s cheeks and his thumbs still tracing patterns there. Mac’s fingers find their way to the front of his shirt of their own accord, clutching at his shirt collar.

"Jesus Christ," Dee says.

Dennis pulls back abruptly, breathing hard. He grins, looking triumphant.

"April fools, bitch."

There’s a short silence.

"Excuse me?"

"You think Dennis is gay," Mac explains. A short, adrenaline fueled cackle escapes out of him. "So we kissed, to make you think you were onto something - but you’re not, and now you look like an idiot. Get it?"

Dee stares up at the ceiling. She pinches the bridge of her nose.

"Okay," she says. "Couple of pointers. It’s not April Fools’ Day. Yesterday was April Fools’ Day. This was not a prank, kissing is not a prank, and _none_ of what you just said makes any sense, at all, in any way."

"No, it does," Mac protests. "‘It does, cause it’s - we weren’t actually kissing, Dee, it was a joke-"

"You were absolutely kissing! I would know, because I was there!"

"You have no eye for subtlety," Dennis spits. "We were - this was ironic! The whole thing was ironic, how is that difficult to understand?"

Dee rolls her eyes.

"Whatever," she says. "Look, I’m meeting Ingrid outside, so you two can settle this by yourselves. I don’t care."

"Go to hell," Dennis snaps back.

"Cool." Dee grabs her bag from the hook by the door, slinging it over one shoulder - still irritatingly unfazed. "Later, idiots."

The front door slams shut. The silence Dee leaves in her wake feels huge and empty.

"Well," Dennis says. "That was -"

"Yeah," Mac mutters. He scrapes one socked foot across the carpet.

"Have you seriously never kissed anyone?"

"Don’t," Mac warns, glancing up at Dennis with a scowl - but Dennis isn’t laughing. He’s just looking at Mac quietly, his expression impenetrable.

"You’re not bad at it," he says. “If you were wondering.”

Something in the air shifts. Mac wonders if he heard him wrong, or if he’s dreaming. His eyes flick down to Dennis's lips, despite himself.

"You…" Mac shakes his head. He clears his throat. "Yeah. Well. You’re…"

It’s impossible to figure out who moves first. Mac honestly doesn’t know if it’s him, or Dennis, or if it was something they did in sync - but what he does know is that this time, there’s no audience. There’s just Dennis, warm and pressed close to him, his fingers curling through Mac’s belt loops and his tongue sliding over his bottom lip. Mac copies him, cups Dennis's face in his hands like he remembers Dennis doing; Dennis makes a soft sort of sound against his mouth, and when they break apart he doesn’t move back.

"Shit," Dennis says. He sounds a little dazed. "God, Dee’s gonna be insufferable."

Mac laughs - which makes Dennis scowl and shove him back, but he lets Mac reel him in again anyway. His fingers are shaking a little as they slide over Dennis's shoulders and settle there.

"We’ll figure something out, dude."

"Yeah, we’d better," Dennis mutters. He leans in again, his nose brushing up against Mac’s as he ducks his head. They both stop talking at all.  
  
  


* * *

**  
** _[1998](https://greenfinches.tumblr.com/post/186244387722/macdennis-94-for-the-fic-prompts-thing-mayhaps) _  
**  
**

Dennis has spent the past five minutes trying to follow the thread of his evening from start to finish. He’s willing to admit that he’s done a pretty terrible job of it.

There was beer - he knows that, at least. A lot of beer. And some shots, before the bar they were at threw them out on the curb. And then some more beers once they got back to his dorm room. And then…

"Mac," Dennis says, sleepily. Mac groans. The bed does too as he rolls over, plastering himself to Dennis's back.

"What?"

"What did we do," Dennis says. He swats at the arm slung around his waist. "After we got home. We did something."

"We made out," Mac offers, which - true. That’s a valid point. Not the one Dennis wanted, but credit should be given where it’s due.

"I know _that_ ," Dennis says. "I meant, like. After."

Mac makes a thoughtful, pensive sort of sound. He noses Dennis's bare shoulder.

"Oh!" he says, triumphant. "We lay down. ‘Cause you got dizzy."

"No, I mean - listen to me. You’re not listening to me."

"Just go to sleep already, dude," Mac says into his neck. He sounds muffled. Dennis scowls and tugs on Mac's hair, just hard enough to make him groan and sit up - but apparently he underestimated how awake Mac really is, because suddenly there’s a warm heavy weight in his lap, and Mac is glaring down at him like Dennis is the one being annoying or something.

"Dennis," he says, with deadly seriousness. "I did not drag my ass halfway across Philly to listen to you talk shit all night."

"So why _did_ you drag your ass halfway across Philly, then," Dennis retorts, eyebrows raised - and when Mac scoffs, leans down to kiss him, he can feel the grin curved across his mouth. He can taste the beer underneath, too.

Mac kisses like he wants to take his time. He always does when he’s had something to drink - alcohol makes him insistent and lazy all at once. He flicks his tongue against Dennis's bottom lip like he’s trying to tease and it works until Dennis gets impatient, reaching up and cupping the back of Mac’s head in one hand so he can reel him in properly, the kind of touch Dennis was hoping for. His hands find their way into Mac’s hair, his fingers carding through it. He's growing it out, or so he says. The difference between this month and the one behind them isn't particularly evident, in Dennis's opinion, but he'll tell him it is if it means Mac visits more often.

It slows the whole world right down. Dennis has tried a lot of distractions over the years - but Mac, for reasons he can't entirely parse, is the one he always circles back to. Part of the allure is how easy it is. It's easy to let Mac kiss him, and to keep kissing him. He could stay here for hours.

"Hypothetically," Dennis murmurs, when Mac pulls back to nose at his jaw. "If I asked you out, would you say yes?"

Mac goes still. Dennis strokes his fingertips over the soft fine hair at the back of his neck, and focuses on keeping his breathing steady.

"Hypothetically," Mac repeats, after a beat. Dennis nods.

"Completely hypothetical," he confirms. "Just, y’know. Out of interest."

Mac goes quiet again. He stays that way for a long minute, and then - very briefly, like he’s never done it before - he kisses the corner of Dennis's mouth. Just once.

"Yeah," he says. It’s so soft that Dennis barely hears him. "Yeah, I think so."

Dennis knows how it looks but he doesn’t particularly care: he leans up on his elbows and winds his arms around Mac’s neck, pulling him close again before he can get too far. He feels Mac exhale into the hollow of his neck. His body turns loose and heavy when Dennis cups his face in his hands, stroking his thumb slowly over Mac’s bottom lip.

"Good," Dennis breathes out.

Mac grins down at him. When he leans in he tastes the same way he did before: hazy-sweet, familiar and warm.

* * *

[ _2004_ ](https://greenfinches.tumblr.com/post/183370013222/hmm-the-gang-napping-together-orrrr-the-first-time)

  
"You," Mac says, laughing, "are so fucking -"

"Don’t say drunk," Dennis warns, swaying slightly on his feet. "Don’t say that."

"You’re a little drunk," Mac says.

Dennis hiccups.

"‘m a little drunk," he mutters. Apparently this strikes him as funny, because he snorts with laughter and leans harder into Mac’s side. Mac rolls his eyes - that particular kind of eye roll that happens when you are very sober, and you’re the only one who is - and reluctantly takes Dennis's weight, slinging one arm over his shoulder so they can hobble down the sidewalk in tandem like some sort of clumsy, four legged entity.

The streetlights are still on, thank god. The sky above them is hollow and greyed out. If he squints Mac can see light on the horizon: the faint, pearlescent pink you find inside seashells.

"Mac." Dennis is tugging insistently on his jacket sleeve. " _Mac_."

"Jesus, what now?"

"I’m cold," Dennis says. Mac rolls his eyes. When he sighs he can see his breath curl out in front of him like smoke.

"Told you to bring a coat, bro."

"Yeah," Dennis mutters absently. He shuffles closer, close enough that Mac’s hand is brushing bare skin as it moves down to his waist, holding him there to keep him steady - and Mac lets them stay like that right up until they’re through the door to their apartment, when he shoves Dennis away and towards the kitchen.

Mac always prefers it when their drunk evenings sync up. It’s more fun, for one thing; and Dennis is easier to deal with, for another. Dennis would probably be making more sense to him right now if they were both hammered. Speaking of which:

"What are you doing?"

"Still cold," Dennis says. He isn’t lying. His bare forearms are freezing when they wrap around Mac’s torso from behind, and so is the tip of his nose as he presses it against the hollow of Mac’s throat. Mac shudders. He can feel the warm exhale of Dennis's laugh against his skin.

"Dick," Mac murmurs, out of habit more than anything else; Dennis stays attached to him like a bizarre third limb while Mac gets a glass out the cupboard, fills it at the sink, and only moves when Mac shrugs his shoulders to get him off. He drinks the water Mac passes over without complaining. His hair is a mess and his shirt’s all rucked up, there are dark circles under his eyes. All the hallmarks of a good night out. Mac’s hands are itching with the urge to reach over and touch. They’ve been having a good run, recently: schemes, movie nights, getting hammered together. He probably could, and Dennis would let him. It’s about as terrifying as it is tempting.

He gets another glass of water down Dennis's throat before pushing him towards his bedroom door. Dennis doesn’t protest all that much - just watches him quietly, his eyes never straying far, letting Mac coax him out of his jeans and into bed. He mumbles something into the pillow as Mac flicks the lights off, and then rolls onto his side, gathering all the blankets up to his chest like he thinks someone’s about to take them from him.

"What’s that?"

"I said," Dennis tells him, marginally clearer, "I bet you do this for all the girls."

Mac clears his throat. His face feels oddly hot. It’s a game: everything with Dennis is a game. It doesn’t mean anything.

"Just you," he says. "Actually."

Dennis's laugh is a breathy, half asleep kind of sound.

"So I’m your best girl."

It’s weird, Mac thinks, how sometimes you can just tell you’re on the brink of something - the way a moment feels like a crossroads lit up in neon. Dennis isn't trying to hide how intently he's looking at him, silent and dark eyed. When he licks his lips Mac swears to god he can feel it, the physical snapping of something in his chest that’s trying so, so hard to stay in place.

"Go to sleep, dude."

Dennis stares for another second longer with an expression Mac can’t read. Then, finally, his eyes dart away. Mac can’t tell if he’s relieved or not. The weight in the air fades out into nothing and whatever takes its place feels… empty, almost. Too much space, where there used to be not enough.

"No," Dennis says lowly. The heavy feeling comes crashing back down. "No, I don’t think that’s how this is gonna go."

"Dennis -"

"Why do you keep looking at me like that?"

Mac breathes in, then out. In, then out. Dennis sits up, the sheets slipping off him and pooling around his feet.

"You keep doing it," he says. He doesn’t sound half as drunk as he did before, pointing a finger at Mac accusingly. "I’ve seen you. You think I don’t."

 _I thought we agreed not to talk about it,_ Mac thinks, but apparently the rules don’t count when Dennis doesn’t want them to. Nothing ever counts when Dennis doesn’t want it to, not when they were nineteen, twenty one, twenty five, and definitely not now.

"Just say it."

He's gone tense, suddenly: sitting upright in bed, hugging his knees, his fixed on Mac again. Mac’s fingers twitch. He doesn’t move.

"Mac." Dennis says, quiet but sharp. "Say it."

He’s never been good with words. That’s always been Dennis's thing. His throat feels dry and Dennis is still looking at him, and Mac jolts forward without thinking about it, crossing the distance between them until it's gone, palming Dennis's face in one hand and kissing the corner of his mouth. Dennis lets him do it, reaching up to grab Mac’s collar and pull him further within reach. He bites Mac’s bottom lip reproachfully, like he’s asking him for something -

"I can’t," Mac says. His voice wavers in the middle; he swallows, fighting to keep it steady. Dennis's fingers are still curled into his shirt.

"What if -"

"Dude, it’s not... I’m not like that, all right, I don’t -"

"What if," Dennis repeats, louder, "I’m a little too drunk. And I don’t remember in the morning."

Mac freezes.

"You mean…" He licks his lips. "You’re talking, like. A blackout-type situation."

"Full on blackout," Dennis says softly. "Wouldn’t remember a thing."

There’s a long silence.

In the end, it goes like this: Mac settles on the other side of the mattress and Dennis gravitates to him instantly, reaching out with cold hands that Mac holds on instinct. He smooths his thumbs over Dennis’s knuckles as he lays them both down, careful to keep Dennis in tow.

"G’night," Dennis mumbles. He really does sound drunk - or maybe it’s just the way his voice is muffled, his face pressed into the hollow of Mac’s throat and his body curled around him like a comma, as always. He's the only person Mac sleeps with regularly. Dennis, in comparison, goes on dates every week, and he always has a girl’s number ready for nights when the bar is slow. Dennis has definitely slept with other people.

What does he say to them? Mac wonders, sleepily. What’s it like, when nobody has to forget in the morning?

"Night, Dennis," he says. Dennis is already out; eyes closed, his breathing low and steady. Mac shifts slightly, ducks his head so his nose is brushing Dennis's hair - breathes in the familiar smell of him and tries to think his problem through.

You can say prayers silently, can’t you? He’s done that enough times. A Hail Mary’s a Hail Mary, whether you say it out loud or not.

He decides to start with that first, just to ease himself into it. _Hail Mary, full of grace, the lord is with ye_ \- right through ‘til, _Hail Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death._ And then, once that’s out the way: _I love you._

The room is still quiet, except for the faint echo of passing cars. The night sky outside the window is barely brushed with dawn. The only thing that moves is Dennis, still sleeping, shuffling closer to Mac under the sheets - he heard, then. In a weird, telepathy sort of way. He must have done. Not that it matters all that much, since they’ve already decided that Dennis is gonna blackout; but hey. For a couple of hours, he'll know.

Mac grins. He closes his eyes.

* * *

[ _2007  
_ ](https://greenfinches.tumblr.com/post/183781753967/hyruling-asked-62-please-shut-up-just-shut)

"Jesus," Dennis mutters, one arm flung across his face. His voice is threatening to slip into a yawn. "Goddamn. I needed that."

They don’t do this often. Couple of times a month, maybe, when pickings have been slim and they both need to get the same itch out their systems. It’s not a big deal. His breathing has started to settle back into a regular rhythm. As he blinks up at the ceiling he can feel a warm ache spreading down his thighs that’s gonna last a few days. In a minute or so he’ll push himself up off the mattress, prod Mac’s bare stomach and tell him to find out where the stack of takeout menus has disappeared to - then he’ll shower and wash the traces of the past half hour off his skin.

There’s something nagging at his senses. He doesn’t know what it is, exactly, until he rolls over and finds Mac staring back at him.

"What?"

"Nothing," Mac says, faintly. It’s the worst lie Dennis has ever heard out of his mouth - which is saying something. He reaches out and flicks the center of Mac’s chest.

"Go on. Spill."

Mac doesn’t say anything. He’s still just watching, his eyes wide and dark, his hair a mess - and that last part is possibly Dennis's fault, but the staring, that’s all on Mac. Mac and his sudden lack of post-sex etiquette.

"Seriously, what is it?" Then he adds, wrinkling his nose as the thought comes to him: "did you leave marks? I have a date tomorrow, asshole, I told you, I don’t have time for -"

Mac’s mouth is hot and clumsy as it presses against his. It barely even feels like a kiss for the first few seconds, until Mac bites down on his bottom lip, and then there’s no mistaking what this is. The slow push and slide rhythm of it, Mac’s tongue wet hot on his and across the roof of his mouth. Mac pulls back and kisses him again, and again, insistent - fidgeting so he can sling himself up over Dennis's thighs, settling on his lap and leaning in so they’re chest to chest, pushing Dennis's body down into the sheets. Dennis shudders; moans against Mac’s mouth in a way that seems to make him want to get even closer, because his hands move from where they’re pressed palms-down on the pillows to Dennis's cheeks, his jaw, tilting his head up and kissing him deeper and softer all at once. He’s a warm heavy weight on Dennis's chest. Dennis doesn’t intend to sigh but he does, and Mac’s name slips out the same way - he lets his legs fall further apart, trying to encourage Mac closer - but Mac pulls back without warning instead, pink cheeked, panting.

"Don’t go."

Dennis freezes still.

"Dennis," Mac says. "Dude, I… don’t go. Tomorrow."

His wide eyes are stuck on Dennis like he doesn’t know how to look anywhere else. Dennis feels stunned and kiss-drunk and it takes him a second to understand what Mac’s even saying; and another one entirely to understand what he means.

They didn’t start out like this. This is his fault, really. They used to have rules but Dennis has been slacking when it comes to enforcing them. _Nothing in the apartment_ , except they’re impulsive as hell and hotel rooms got old; _nothing else afterwards,_ except Mac’s warm body is easy to curl around; _nothing face to face,_ except Dennis likes the way Mac kisses too much to give it up.

He pushes Mac off him.

"Don’t make it weird, dude."

He keeps his eyes low on the sheets, picking at a loose thread. Mac stays quiet, and for a second he thinks he’s managed to diffuse whatever this is, until:

"I’m not the one making it weird," Mac mutters - which is just bizarre enough as an argument to set Dennis off.

"You were there when I asked her out!" he snaps. "What did you think was going to happen, Mac, Jesus Christ -"

"I don’t know!" Mac’s chewing on his bottom lip, staring down at his restless fingers as they mess around with the comforter. "I don’t know, I just…"

It’s difficult to look away from him now he’s started. This is Dennis's biggest problem, the weakness that keeps tugging him down. There’s a jump that happens low in his stomach every time Mac gets this close, and he doesn’t know what it means, only that it scares him shitless every time.

Mac glances at him. Dennis swallows at the way his gaze focuses and his eyebrows dart up. _You’re staring,_ Mac’s expression says. Dennis lifts his chin stubbornly and narrows his eyes. _So are you._

Slowly, like he’s trying to give Dennis the benefit of the doubt, Mac moves closer. Dennis manages to stay stoic until he reaches his lap again, and then his breath gets all caught up in his throat when Mac leans in to bite his lip lightly, soothe the sting with his tongue.

The other problem, Dennis reflects, folding his arms around Mac’s neck, is that nobody kisses him the way Mac does. There’s something addictive about it, a slow building heat that sparks up into something hotter whenever he licks his way into Dennis's mouth in that way he likes. His hands are never still and Dennis loves that, too: how Mac rakes his fingernails down his chest, cups his chin, strokes his hair. Nobody touches him the way Mac does.

"You’re a dick," Mac murmurs. His breath is hot on Dennis's cheek. Dennis pinches his thigh in retaliation and Mac huffs, the way he always does when he thinks he’s in the right.

"You’re a dick," Dennis says. "Pick me up at six."

"We live together," Mac points out absently. Then, with a double take so huge that his eyes go wide, he says, "wait -"

" _Six_. And I’m choosing the restaurant."

Mac just stares at him.

"You…"

"Please shut up," Dennis advises, "just - shut up," but Mac ignores him and starts laughing instead, sounding giddy with disbelief. Dennis curls his fingers into Mac’s hair and slides one calf between his legs to draw him closer. The curve of his grin tastes sweet on Dennis's mouth.  



	2. Chapter 2

_[2008](https://greenfinches.tumblr.com/post/185209506682/6-15-or-50-for-macden)  
_

"Charlie," Dennis says evenly.

Charlie clears his throat.

"Hey, man."

"Aren’t you supposed to be dead?"

"Yeah." Charlie’s got one hand resting on the door frame, fingers tapping too-quick. "So. About that, long story, ran into some problems - Mac hit his head -"

"Is Mac dead?" Dennis snaps. "Is that what this is about?"

"What?" Charlie frowns at him. "No, dude. Chill. Nobody’s dead. Mac’s out in the hall."

Dennis pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Get to the point."

"I‘m trying to! Look, he keeps making me buy him stuff, he’s being all weird - and I’m trying to keep a low profile, y’know, ‘cause his dad’s trying to kill me - so can you, like. Take him back?"

"Take him back," Dennis repeats. Charlie shrugs.

"Yeah."

There’s a short silence. Dennis is planning to break it with a brutal takedown involving new roommates and glory holes, but before he has time to open his mouth, Mac stumbles into view. There’s blood on his face and a dress slipping off his shoulders. When he catches sight of the open apartment door his face lights up with a bright, dazed grin.

"Dennis!" he crows happily. "Dude, we blew up a car."

*

"If you die, I’m going to kill you," Dennis mutters, rolling up his sleeves.

"It was Charlie’s idea," Mac protests. His words are slurring a little. "What’re you doing?"

Dennis sighs.

"Take the dress off."

"I like the dress," Mac insists, for the fifth or sixth time in as many minutes. Dennis rolls his eyes as he steps forward, reaching deftly behind Mac and tugging the zipper down.

"Do you like it?"

Mac’s voice is still in that confused, plaintive sort of register - and he’s looking at Dennis expectantly, clearly waiting for a response. Dennis clears his throat.

"It’s…" _Filthy. Definitely cursed. Hasn’t seen the light of day since the mid-70’s._ "Nice."

Mac beams at him. Dennis does his best to ignore it, watching Mac step unsteadily out of his jeans and hoping to god he doesn’t trip over his own feet.

"Charlie didn’t," Mac confides muzzily. "Charlie didn’t like it, dude."

"Well, Charlie’s never had taste," Dennis says. He taps Mac lightly on the arm. "Arms up."

The sleeves are loose enough that the whole thing slides onto the floor without much effort. Mac looks gangly underneath, stood there barefoot in a stained t-shirt and boxers. He’s swaying on his feet.

"You want a shower?" Dennis asks - and it’s not really supposed to be a question, because Mac smells like shit and looks about the same, but Mac just shakes his head.

"Where are we gonna keep it?"

Dennis frowns.

"Keep what?"

"We have to keep it, Dennis," Mac says, sounding oddly serious. "What if she comes looking for it?"

Keeping him talking is probably the right way to go from here, Dennis decides. At the very least, Mac hasn’t noticed the way he’s being slowly shepherded over towards the bathroom door.

"Who are you talking about?"

"The bride," Mac tells him absently. "Hey, who’s gonna wear the dress if we get married?"

A weird, needling sensation launches itself full-force at Dennis's spine. It starts at the top and floods straight down, just like when he was a kid and Dee used to drop ice down his collar.

"We’d be grooms," he points out stiffly.

"There’s always a dress, though," Mac insists. "It’s like that - the show, with the -"

"Say Yes To The Dress," Dennis mutters, pushing Mac over towards the sink and flicking on the tap. Mac opens his mouth like he has other shit to say, and then thankfully closes it again when Dennis presses a damp washcloth up against his ear.

The blood comes off easy. Dennis works his way down Mac’s neck, moving in slow circles. Mac stays quiet except for one small, hurt sound - Dennis jumps when he leans forward, rests his head on Dennis's shoulder without warning.

"What are you doing?"

"S’bright," Mac mumbles. He’s nosing at Dennis's throat now, hot breath puffing onto Dennis's collarbone. It should feel disgusting. It doesn’t. Dennis decides to dissect that discrepancy later. As it is he cups Mac’s face in one hand, lifting his head and keeping him still - he can feel Mac’s eyes on him but he doesn’t let himself look, and he focuses on cleaning the cut instead.

"You’re lucky you don’t need any stitches," he points out, irritated. "Why the hell did you crash on purpose, anyway -"

"We needed to make it look legit."

"This was the best idea you could come up with? Crashing a car?"

"Sorry," Mac says softly.

His eyes are very dark in this light. It’s probably the concussion. Either way, there are exhausted circles shadowed underneath: Dennis tries his best to keep hold of the anger sparking in his chest but Mac just keeps looking at him like that, and he can feel it when the flame hopelessly flickers out.

"You are so stupid," Dennis mutters.

"No smart-assing me right now, dude," Mac says sleepily. He flicks him on the arm. "Come on."

"You drove a car into a wall," Dennis snaps. "Deliberately. As part of a fake your own death scheme - which, might I remind you, we always agreed we’d do _together_ , precisely because your ideas are so goddamn inefficient -"

It hasn’t been that long since the last time. Two months, maybe three. It’s been long enough that Mac manages to catch him by surprise; Dennis's mouth is half parted around a word as Mac kisses him, clumsy but persistent, leaning back against the sink for support as he slides his arms up around Dennis's neck.

"I’ll tell you next time," Mac breathes out, his breath fever-hot on Dennis's skin. "I swear."

He tries to kiss the corner of Dennis's mouth but misses, too unsteady on his feet. It ends up skating over his jaw instead. Dennis swallows.

"Come sit down."

"Charlie said not to sleep," Mac protests. "He said I have a concession."

"Concussion," Dennis says. Mac flushes as he ducks his head down to the floor.

"Yeah, whatever."

It comes out half-mumbled, the way Mac talks when he’s waiting for Dennis to twist the knife in a little deeper. Dennis would, usually, but the fact remains that there’s blood under Mac’s fingernails. He’s swaying on his feet. Every time Dennis thinks about it - about Mac slamming into a wall with his foot on the gas - it makes something inside twist.

He steps forward. Mac’s eyes flick up to his face automatically, and the exhaustion is even more evident up close - it’s in the needy press of his mouth, the way he’s leaning heavily against Dennis's body now he’s got permission to do it. Dennis moves his hands to Mac’s sides, stroking slowly.

"Come sit with me," he murmurs.

"Charlie said -"

"Mac," Dennis says. "Shut up."

In the end, they settle by the headboard. Dennis sits up against the pillows, browsing disinterestedly through his phone, and Mac slumps on him like a deadweight, dozing contentedly, getting dust and grime all over Dennis's clean sheets.

"We never agreed on it," he says sleepily. Dennis pauses, mid-scroll.

"On what?"

"The dress." Mac’s voice is muffled against his collarbone. "You know. Who gets to wear it."

He’s not lucid, Dennis reminds himself. He’s not going to remember any of this in eight hours. In eight minutes.

"You found it," he points out, a little stilted. "I think finders-keepers probably applies here."

Mac hums. He presses his mouth to Dennis's neck; briefly and barely there, like he’s not even aware that he’s doing it, and Dennis's grip on his phone tightens.

"Okay," Mac says agreeably. And then, because he’s apparently not done giving Dennis heart attacks: "You look nice in suits, Den."

"Go to sleep," Dennis says. Mac just noses his throat again, unbearably slow - and then he lays his head down in the same spot afterwards, his hair tickling Dennis's chin, warm breath fanning out over his skin.

"I’m going." The words get caught in a yawn. "Just thought you might wanna know. That’s all."

"Go to _sleep_ ," Dennis repeats sharply, but there’s no real heat behind it. He’s not sure he remembers how to put heat behind things, when Mac’s involved. That can be another knot for him to untangle later.

Mac goes still against his chest, his breathing steadying out. After a minute, when Dennis has counted three sleep-long breaths in a row, he starts to slide his fingers through his hair. Mac makes a quiet sort of sound, shifting closer. He doesn’t stir.  
  


* * *

  
[ _November, 2009_ ](https://greenfinches.tumblr.com/post/179150414122/flower-and-macden)  
  
****

"Well, far be it from me to, uh, keep the flower of you from flourishing, but I guess I’ll grab my shit and stay at Charlie’s -"

"Wait."

It comes out off-beat and too fast. Dennis wishes it hadn’t: it takes every ounce of self control he has to keep himself from wincing.

His hand has grabbed hold of Mac’s shoulder, forcing him still. He wishes he hadn’t done that either, because he barely manages to pull his fingers back in time, two seconds away from curling into Mac’s shirt and staying there. Mac’s still staring at him: a little petty, a little spiteful, and a lot like he’s daring him to do something about whatever it is that’s settled in the room with them.

Dennis exhales.

"Don’t do that,” he says, stilted. “I feel like I’m the one who got us into this mess."

"Okay," Mac says. It’s the most agreeable _fuck you_ Dennis has ever heard. "So you’ll stay at Charlie’s, then."

"No,” Dennis blurts out. Jesus Christ, what is wrong with him? “No, you should stay there, because you already said that you would - plus I have more stuff, it’d take me longer to pack, so…"

Mac’s still looking at him. The air’s getting thicker and thicker.

"It’ll be easier," Dennis finishes lamely. His mouth has gone dry.

Dennis hates him. He hates him for bitching about the movie, for the video store interrogation, for moving closer and closer on the fucking couch like giving Dennis a centimeter of his own space was too much to ask - he hates the way he’s staring right now, defiant and stubborn, apparently ready and willing to dig his heels into the ground and wait for Dennis to crack.

He closes the distance out of frustration more than anything else - all it takes is two strides across the living room floor before he’s cupping Mac’s face in both hands, biting down on his bottom lip with all the resentment that’s been building for the past few hours. Mac doesn’t kiss back - just stands there, his mouth slack and stunned, until Dennis folds his arms around his neck - and from there it’s like he’s pulled something undone. Mac surges forward, kissing him in a way that says he’s been thinking about this all day. All week. He pulls away, his breath hot on Dennis's jaw; he starts mouthing softly down his neck, and Dennis finds himself tilting his head to one side to give him better access. There’s a warm haze settling over him that’s making it hard to remember what they were fighting about. Following the trail of his anger feels like trying to cup water in his hands.

"Don’t go to Charlie’s," Dennis mutters. He can feel the curve of Mac’s grin against his throat.  
  


* * *

[ _December, 2009_ ](https://greenfinches.tumblr.com/post/184089172707/17-macden-for-the-prompts)  
  


"You look like a fucking idiot in that, take it off."

"In what?"

"In -" Dennis waves an irritated hand. "That. The glasses, the slacks, the whole thing is -"

Incredibly effective, in Mac’s opinion. The bookworm roommate routine is a classic. If anything, Dennis is probably jealous he didn’t come up with it first. He’s still pretty riled up from the fiasco at the fair: Mac can see it in the set of his shoulders, the terse line of his mouth. There’s no point trying to prove anything to him when he’s in a mood.

Mac rolls his eyes. He stretches, sighing, cracking his neck and reaching up above his head -

"Is that my sweater?"

Mac freezes. Cautiously, he lowers his arms.

"No."

"Bullshit," Dennis says. "Yes it is. Did you get that out my room?"

"I got it in a thrift store!" Mac protests. "Jesus Christ."

Dennis is advancing on him now. Mac almost thinks he’s gonna deck him, but instead Dennis just plucks the fabric of one sleeve between thumb and forefinger. His expression darkens even further.

"This is _merino_ wool, moron! Do you know how much -"

"It’s not like you ever wear it!" Mac can feel himself scowling as he tugs his sleeve back from Dennis's hands. "You have a billion of them, come on -"

"That’s not the point," Dennis hisses. He tries to grab the hem but fails; Mac steps out the way just in time, pushing closer into his space before Dennis has time to move.

"Dude," he says. "Dennis. You never wear it."

"I was going to."

Mac rolls his eyes.

"So wear it another day and let it go already."

"Let it go?"

"Yeah," Mac says, nodding. Dennis lets out a laugh that’s half fury, half disbelief.

"Mac, you sleep with the same chicks as me! You steal my goddamn clothes! If _anyone_ here needs to let shit go -"

"Next Top Model’s on tonight," Mac points out. He’s close enough now that he can thread his fingers through Dennis's belt loops. Dennis doesn’t seem to have noticed.

"So what?"

"So if we start a fight now," Mac says, lowering his voice now they’re close, "that only gives us two hours to get it over with and make up. Two hours _max_ , bro. And that’s if we skip the recap."

He slides his thumbs under Dennis's shirt, stroking slow circles over bare skin. For all his asshole posturing, Dennis doesn’t seem to mind all that much.

"I like the recap," he mutters, frowning. He blinks a few times, like he’s trying to keep his focus - Mac inches closer so they’re pretty much chest to chest, fully in Dennis's orbit now - and Dennis finally leans into him, just slightly.

"I know," Mac murmurs. "That’s why we should speed this up."

"It’s still my sweater," Dennis insists, the corners of his mouth curled down petulantly. Mac rolls his eyes again. He leans in and kisses him on the mouth, once, twice, until Dennis makes a low sound in his throat and pushes closer for a third.

"Just borrowing it, bro,” he says. Dennis's lips finally curve up against his. They sway a little, side to side, and then Mac presses his mouth gently to the side of Dennis's neck, the barest brush of pressure. Dennis exhales.

"Mac."

He really doesn’t sound as firm as he thinks he does. Mac grins, he can’t help it, and it earns him a flick on the arm in return.

"Give it back," Dennis says quietly. It’s the voice he only uses when they’re standing this close, the one he uses to get what he wants. Mac pecks the tip of his nose.

"Who knows," he says. "Maybe I'll keep it."

Dennis raises his eyebrows.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Mac kisses the curve of his jaw. "Think it suits me." He ducks his head, nipping at Dennis's throat. "You have way too many of these anyway, dude. I’m doing you a favor."

Dennis shuts his eyes with a long, aggrieved sigh.

"This is going to hurt," he warns - but by the time the words are out his mouth, the war has already started. Mac’s defeated within seconds, cackling and squirming out of reach as Dennis pushes him backwards and shoves him against the wall; Dennis's fingers keep grazing his ribs and Mac’s knees are going weak, and he doesn’t know if it’s because of the laughter or the way Dennis is smiling at him.

"Jesus," Mac says, breathless from laughing, "fucking - truce, truce already, c’mon -"

Dennis's open mouth tastes faintly of beer and cherry lip balm. He doesn’t resist when Mac curls his fingers around his wrists, pulls him closer. Dennis's kisses are softer and slower than Mac had imagined they’d be, before he got to have them this often; Dennis likes it best when Mac presses him up against walls, or the cushions of the couch, or their mattress, and takes his time. Kissing him is intoxicating. Mac could do it all day.

"You can have it," Dennis murmurs. "If you really want."

"That sounds like a cop out."

The return of Dennis's frown is impressively sudden. If Mac didn’t know better, he’d almost call it cute.

"I was being nice, asshole." He shoves at Mac’s chest. "Fuck you."

"We’d miss the recap," Mac points out. He’s laughing by the time Dennis shoves him again, and still laughing when Dennis drags him over towards the couch, slotting their fingers together in the process.

* * *

  
[_January, 2010_](https://greenfinches.tumblr.com/post/184422438722/love-ur-writing-if-u-get-a-chance-id-kill-for) ****

Mac smells of dried sweat and that weird stale scent that comes with a fever. There’s a cowlick sticking up near his temple; his dark eyes are glassy, his nose is stained pink. He’s still, somehow, looking at Dennis like he’s offering him a large spider, instead of a favor between friends.

"I can do it myself, dude."

"Mac, let me make something very clear to you," Dennis says. "You look and smell like the inside of a gym sock."

"I do not," Mac snaps - but whatever comeback he was going to follow that up with gets lost in a coughing fit. Dennis wrinkles his nose, taking a step back.

"You do," he says firmly. "And it’s vile. Which brings us right back where we started - just let me handle it, get it over with, and then you can go to bed -"

"Go to work," Mac corrects. His face is still set in a frown. Dennis rolls his eyes.

"Fine. _Work_. Whatever. Is that a yes?"

There’s a second, maybe two, where he thinks that it might be. Except then Mac lifts his chin - looking pale, stubbornly proud, and like death warmed up - and insists, "I‘ve got it, bro, honestly," and Dennis regrets not saving his eye-roll for this exact moment.

Well. It’s not like he didn’t try.

"Have fun knocking yourself out," Dennis calls after him - doesn’t bother to hide the skepticism in the slightest, Mac deserves to hear it - and he gets a brief glimpse of Mac’s retreating back and a raised middle finger, and then the bathroom door is slamming shut.

Mac is the worst kind of sick person. Dennis should know, he’s spent over a decade of his life living with him: Mac is quite content to force himself into doing shit while half dead, coughing and snuffling his way through the day, vehemently insisting it’s not a big deal. Everywhere he goes he leaves a trail of germs and crumpled tissues in his wake. It’s disgusting and inconvenient, and disgustingly inconvenient. It’s _deluded_. It leads to Mac making delusional choices, like showering alone after wheezing all night under a blanket like some sort of Victorian orphan-invalid.

Three minutes pass before Dennis hears the coughing start, right on cue.

The bathroom is thickly veiled in steam. He gets wrapped up in it the second he walks in, and he can faintly see the shape of Mac’s body hunched up behind the shower curtain. Mac keeps coughing as Dennis takes off his shirt and his sweatpants, as he folds them up and puts them down on the counter; he’s still coughing when Dennis draws the curtain back and steps in, slotting himself behind Mac and hooking his chin on his shoulder, rubbing his heaving chest slowly until Mac catches his breath.

"Think I might be sick," Mac mutters.

Dennis snorts.

"He thinks he might be sick, ladies and gentlemen," he announces, cupping his hands under the spray for a moment to catch water, carding wet fingers through Mac’s hair. "God. You want an award for all that observation work you’re doing?"

"Dennis," Mac says, bordering on a whine, and the sound he makes when he coughs again is so pathetic that Dennis gives in; hushes him, molding himself to Mac’s back, pressing his mouth to the rogue patch of freckles on his shoulder.

"Tilt your head back," he murmurs.

It’s a testament to how tired Mac is underneath that he does it without fuss. The easy, unconscious way he bares his throat makes something jump in Dennis's chest and he doesn’t entirely know what it means, so he decides to focus on their soap caddy instead. He frowns.

"Two in one? Really?"

"It’s cheap," Mac protests.

"Exactly."

"Don’t knock it ‘til you try it," Mac says sleepily. "S’all I’m saying."

"I have tried it." Dennis points out, stroking his soapy fingers through Mac’s fringe. "I will knock it. You’re going to get dandruff."

" _You’re_ gonna get dandruff," Mac mutters, apparently happy with the state of this comeback. Dennis rolls his eyes as he rinses Mac’s hair, and once he’s satisfied that the water’s running clear he spins him around.

He was intending to make a start on conditioner, but it’s like turning him has caused a switch to flick: Mac folds his arms around Dennis's shoulders and leans into him instantly, heavy, loose limbed, nosing at his neck. He feels warm from the water and warmer underneath that, too; the sticky heat that comes from fever. Dennis gives in and kisses him, brief and soft.

"Stay home," he demands. Mac makes an argumentative sort of sound, pulling back - opens his mouth like he’s about to mention some bullshit about paychecks or rent money - and Dennis just cups his cheeks in his hands, leans in close, murmurs, "stay _home_ , baby, come on." Watches the way that word makes Mac swallow and go still.

"Yeah." Mac clears his throat. Dennis feels a rush of satisfaction with something else underneath it, warmer and unnameable. "Yeah, okay."


	3. Chapter 3

[ _2011_ ](https://greenfinches.tumblr.com/post/183549207392/31-and-macdennis-for-the-prompts)

He’s in Dennis's room.

He, Mac, is in Dennis's bedroom, and this was a terrible idea. He regrets agreeing to it more than he’s ever regretted anything in his life - and this is going to cause the end of his life, probably, and Dennis will have to scrape him up off the floor and pay a stupidly high cleaning fee, and all of that will be Mac’s fault, for overestimating his ability to keep his feelings under control.

"Mac," Dennis snaps. His fingers are brushing over Mac’s adam’s apple, fixing his starched collar just so. "Focus."

Mac swallows.

"I am focused, dude."

"You’re not," Dennis says. His fingers skate across Mac’s neck again. Mac stifles a shudder.

"It’s just… y’know, this - this doesn’t seem all that efficient-"

"The gay card is always efficient," Dennis points out. "How are you not getting this?"

He steps back, surveying his handiwork: Mac can’t decide if it’s better or worse, having him two feet away instead of two inches. It means he has to look at Dennis's outfit again: the bright yellow jacket and the crisp white shirt. He looks just like he did two years ago. Mac definitely doesn’t, but apparently Dennis has been planning this long enough that he got Mac’s outfit altered in advance - which is weird, and feels like something more than what a friend does for another friend, so Mac’s trying not to think about it too much. It isn’t really working.

"Why couldn’t we get Charlie to do it?"

"Mac," Dennis says flatly.

"Or Dee." Mac feels helpless. His mouth is running itself without permission, and the words are coming out quicker and quicker. "Or Frank - or we could, we could put a post out on Craigslist-"

"Mac," Dennis repeats, softer, lower; and he’s stepping close again, dangerously close, his hands resting on Mac’s cheeks and his thumbs stroking slowly back and forth. " _Mac_. Come on, baby. Don’t you think this is easier?"

Mac swallows.

"Not really."

"It is," Dennis says firmly. "This is gonna be the easiest thing we’ve ever done. In and out job. All you have to do, Vic, is trust me. You trust me, right?"

 _Not at all,_ Mac thinks. _Not even a little._

"Can I kiss you?"

It jumps out before he can stop it - and apparently it catches Dennis by surprise too, because he freezes for a second like a record catching on a scratch. He gets over it pretty quick, the tension in his body loosening again as he strokes doubtful fingers over the scruff on Mac’s cheeks and around his chin.

"No marks," Dennis warns. His fingers don’t seem to care though, already clinging to the lapels of Mac’s jacket; and Mac’s ready to meet him halfway, his hands moving low on his back.

“No marks,” he murmurs against his mouth. Dennis laughs - a faint, breathless sort of sound. Something sweet and heavy lurches in Mac’s chest.  
  


* * *

  
[ _January, 2012  
_ ](https://greenfinches.tumblr.com/post/181276466647/asking-for-a-friend-but-when-will-dennis-sleepily)

"I told you. I _told_ you, dude. You gotta stop ordering four shots. Caffeine’s a bitch, it dissolves your stomach lining."

"Stop," Dennis says, slightly muffled by Mac’s pants leg. "Stop talking."

He won’t. Not now he‘s found a reason to gloat. The fallout from this will last all week, at least: Mac’s always been weirdly insistent that there’s a connection between Dennis's headaches and his coffee order, and he’s going to take today’s incident as all the proof he needs and then some. Of course he is. Mac is dick who doesn’t know when to quit pushing. He’s annoying and an asshole, and Dennis is going to -

"This hurt?"

The fingers in his hair press down, straying in slow circles, carding through it. The roaring in Dennis's ears quietens a little.

"Dennis," Mac says. His fingers aren’t moving anymore, which is incredibly inconsiderate on his part. Dennis frowns.

"Doesn’t hurt," he mutters, flicking an impatient hand at Mac’s thigh. He curls his fingers into the worn-soft fabric of his sweatpants afterwards and breathes in, eyes closed.

Mac smells faintly of cheap aftershave and stale beer. His body is warm and solid and Dennis curls himself around it tighter, shifting on the bed until he’s in the shape of a comma. His head is resting somewhere in the vicinity of Mac’s hip and he snatches up the hand that isn’t in his hair, his fingers digging into Mac’s wrist as they wrap around it. Rain drums faintly on the window. His eyelids start to feel heavy.

"Seriously, though." Mac says. "At least try three, c’mon-"

"Jesus Christ," Dennis mutters, struggling upright and preparing himself for round two, but then Mac’s fingers scratch a little harder, hitting the perfect spot - and suddenly it seems like a lot of effort, telling him how wrong he is. It seems like something that could take up a lot of time. He makes a pleased sort of sound, arching his back, and he scowls up at Mac when he decides to huff out a laugh.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"No, go on," Dennis says. "Spill."

"You’re like a cat," Mac tells him, scratching that particular spot again and grinning at whatever it is he sees on Dennis's face. "Always demanding attention and shit."

Dennis frowns, dropping his hold on Mac’s free hand.

"I don’t always demand attention. I never demand attention, I‘m incredibly self-sufficient."

Mac raises his eyebrows.

"Occasionally," Dennis concedes. " _Occasionally_. As a last resort tactic."

"Sure," Mac says, sounding so horrendously full of himself that Dennis doesn’t really have a choice: he sighs, pushing himself upright so he can kiss Mac on the mouth, biting down sharply on his lip.

"I don’t demand anything," he repeats sternly. "Admit it."

"Kinda proving my point here, dude," Mac says. He strokes one hand through Dennis's hair again, rough palm slipping down to cup his cheek in one hand. Dennis leans into it, eyes flickering shut. A dull throbbing pain shoots out from somewhere behind his temple.

"Whatever," he mutters. Mac shifts underneath him, adjusting them both until Dennis's head can loll onto his shoulder.

"Get some sleep," he says. "Headaches make you act like a bitch."

 _You’re a bitch,_ Dennis wants to retort, but Mac’s fingers are back in his hair, carding slowly, and his thoughts are slipping away from him like water into sand.  
  


* * *

[ _June, 2012_ ](https://greenfinches.tumblr.com/post/180982556327/i-heard-scrapped-kiss-scene-miss-rose-your-kiss)  
  


"All right," Dennis says, shutting the door to the office and leaning back against it. "What’s up?"

Mac’s stood in front of the desk, tapping his fingers on his thighs restlessly - when he sees Dennis he lets out a sigh of relief, running a hand through his hair.

"Okay, good. So you got my signal."

Dennis squints at him.

"You texted me."

"Yeah," Mac says, frowning. "That counts as a signal, Dennis, it’s not - look, doesn’t matter. We need to talk."

Dennis's heartbeat jumps into his throat.

"About what?"

Mac crosses his arms. He exhales. Then:

"You haven’t kissed me all day, dude."

Dennis stares at him.

"Excuse me?"

"It’s been twenty five hours," Mac says. "Technically twenty four and some minutes? But I couldn’t figure that shit out so I just rounded up -"

"Jesus Christ," Dennis says faintly.

"And my point is," Mac continues, apparently determined to soldier on, "that’s a long time, and you haven’t said anything about it - so if you’re pissed at me you should just tell me now, and then we can -"

"And why couldn’t you do the kissing, exactly?"

"‘Well," Mac says. "I mean. ‘Cause I want you to do it."

There’s a short pause.

"You want me to do it," Dennis repeats, slowly.

"Yeah.” Mac lifts his chin, the way he does when he’s feeling stubborn. "Look, can you just…"

"What?"

"Dennis," Mac says, his voice bordering on impatient, "come _on_ -"

Messing with Mac would be easier to resist if he didn’t blush so much, Dennis reflects. A lot of things would be easier to resist if Mac didn’t blush so much. As it is he pushes off the door and walks forward to put his hands on Mac’s chest, tapping his fingers lightly on Mac’s shirt.

"Sure you don’t want to?" he murmurs, tilting his head just so and letting their lips almost touch. Mac shudders.

"Stop being an asshole about it," he says, half-breathless, half-annoyed, "and just-"

"Relax," Dennis tells him - and a little extra teasing can’t hurt, this close to the finish line. He smooths his hands over Mac’s shirt once more before cupping his cheeks, relishing the way Mac’s breathing catches. " _Relax_ , baby boy. You think I’d leave you hanging?"

"Yes," Mac mutters. He’s closed his eyes. Dennis can’t help it: he strokes his thumb over Mac’s cheeks one last time, and when he tilts his head and presses their mouths together Mac lets out a low little sound and leans into him, swaying on his feet. It’s warm and slow. Mac bites gently at his bottom lip and moans when Dennis's tongue brushes up against his, when Dennis's hands slip into his hair. Dennis pushes closer until Mac takes a step backwards and hits the desk - he lets Dennis crowd him up against it until Dennis can feel the line of Mac’s body pressed hot against his. Mac’s hands are sliding over his thighs like they’d prefer to be underneath them.

"There," Dennis says tartly, pulling away. "All better."

Mac starts to scowl.

"Don’t say it like that."

"Like what?"

"Like…" Mac waves one hand in the air, vague and incredibly unhelpful. "Like that."

"Like what?" Dennis repeats - he can feel the corners of his mouth twitching upwards, and he knows that’s what gives him away. Mac shoves his shoulder.

"I hate you," he mutters. Dennis huffs out a laugh as he leans in to kiss him again.  
  


* * *

  
_December, 2012 ([i](https://greenfinches.tumblr.com/post/180137264972/i-love-your-writing-rose-okay-so-mmm-pillow-and) & [ii](https://greenfinches.tumblr.com/post/184258479142/write-some-macden-jst-something-short-and-sweet)) _   
  
****

"Mac," Dennis says - very calmly, in his opinion, considering the shit he’s putting up with. "Move your fucking leg before I cut it off."

The knee between his calves stubbornly wedges there further.

"You have," Mac mutters from behind him, "all the goddamn blankets, dude, excuse me for trying not to freeze -"

"We’re both trying not to freeze," Dennis snaps, reaching behind him for Mac’s arm and tugging it tighter around his waist. Mac mumbles something as he curls closer, his breath a brief spot of heat on the back of Dennis's neck.

"What was that?"

"Bitch," Mac repeats, before determinedly tucking his cold nose into the crook of Dennis's shoulder. Dennis would chew him out for it but then Mac presses his mouth softly to the same spot, a kiss with an apology hidden underneath it like a baseline, and Dennis decides to settle for sighing instead.

"Christ, we need new sheets." He fidgets, pressing his body back more firmly against the warm line of Mac’s stomach and thighs. "This is ridiculous."

"Talk tomorrow," Mac says, yawning. He slides the leg caught between Dennis's further over his calf, curling their bodies closer together. Dennis makes a quiet, irritated noise, because he has opinions on their sheets, their pillows, their comforter, and Mac’s knees, and he’s in the mood to share them - but Mac just hums, nuzzles the sensitive space where Dennis's throat meets his collarbone and then hides his face there. Dennis's eyelids start to feel pretty heavy.

"Tomorrow," he warns. Mac nods, not lifting his head. The arm slung over Dennis's hips tightens.  
  


*  
  


The floor is cold. The floor is uncomfortably cold, and Mac’s side of the mattress has been empty for the past ten minutes, which meant the mattress was also cold - and that’s why Dennis is stumbling barefoot towards the doorway, rubbing his eyes, on a mission to find Mac and his weird furnace-like body and drag him back to bed for another hour or so.

The living room is still shrouded in 5am darkness, but the kitchen is lit up. Dennis shuffles towards it like a moth to a street light, squinting: and yes, finally, he spots Mac’s turned back by the countertop.

"Why are you over here," Dennis says, sleepily. He moves forward so he can tug at Mac’s sleeve, trying to pull him back towards the bedroom. "I don’t want you to be over here."

Mac hums like he’s heard him, but doesn’t turn. Dennis scowls. He slides his arms around Mac’s hips and settles behind him, pressing stubbornly against the heat of his back.

"Waffle iron arrived," Mac clarifies, like that explains anything at all. He leans into Dennis's chest.

"Didn’t order one," Dennis mutters. He noses the hollow of Mac’s neck, testing its warmth - and he can feel it when Mac’s body stiffens against his.

Dennis frowns.

"Mac."

"So, technically," Mac says. "Technically, I - okay. Dude. You know how you gave me your pin for like, emergencies -"

He makes a series of insistent, listen-to-me noises as Dennis groans, turning in his arms like he’s got a whole lecture planned - but lectures aren’t conducive to getting Mac back in bed, so Dennis kisses him, just firm enough to be distracting. Mac’s mouth is dry. He tastes faintly of toothpaste and sleep.

"Shut up," Dennis murmurs. "Come lie down."

"I made batter," Mac protests, pointing to the counter. Dennis glances at the bowl in front of him.

"There’s shell in that."

Mac scowls.

"So?"

"So, whatever," Dennis says. "Put it away and use it later."

Mac’s bottom lip is jutting out a little. Dennis goes in for the kill: folds his arms around Mac’s neck and kisses his pouting mouth, sliding one of his legs between Mac’s and letting it rest there. Mac lasts a second, maybe two, before he breathes out a sigh and rests his hands loosely on Dennis's hips. God, he's warm. Dennis makes a low, approving sort of sound, moving even closer ‘til he’s pressed as close as he can get, and they stay like that until the moment slowly fades back to where it came from. It leaves them standing chest to chest under the flickering kitchen light.

"Come on," Dennis says quietly. "It's cold as shit out here."

He runs one hand down Mac’s back; and maybe that’s what does it in the end, or maybe he’s just worn him down. Mac rolls his eyes either way.

"Fine," he says, with less sharpness than Dennis was expecting, and he lets Dennis grab his hand and curl their fingers together. He follows him back to the bedroom door.


	4. Chapter 4

[ _2016_ ](https://greenfinches.tumblr.com/post/615234116892426240/embarrassed-macden-thanks-you-get-me-feeling)

He knew it was gonna be a long night the second Dennis got home.

Mac had heard the door slam; heard a set of keys hit the hallway table with enough force that the sound carried all the way upstairs. Padded into the kitchen, squinting in the light, still half asleep from the doze he’d been in the middle of, and said, "what the hell, dude, keep it down," and then -

Then, four hours of yelling later, they’d ended up here.

"What are you gonna do?" Dennis taunts. He’s circled closer again, stalking around their mess of a living room. "Come on. What are you gonna do, Mac? Hit me?"

He laughs when Mac shoves him backwards - so Mac shoves him again, harder, and this time he provokes a hitch in Dennis's breathing that he latches onto like a signal flashing in the dark. Dennis isn’t completely caught up in his own head. Not yet.

"What the fuck are you gonna do?" Dennis murmurs. He’s not taken his eyes off Mac in… who knows. It feels like years. Mac steps forward, shaking -

The hallway light goes out.

Mac stills. He squints up at it, blinking as he adjusts to the dark.

"Was that -"

"Power cut," Dennis says. He sounds bemused, almost. Like all the anger from a second ago has been drained out of him.

"Power cut," Mac echoes. "Shit."

His body refuses to move. He doesn’t really know what he’s waiting for, but he knows that he’s waiting for something. The lights stay off. After another minute, the pool filter outside stutters into silence. The piercing chirrup he’s bracing for never comes.

"This house, man," Dennis mutters. He shakes his head. When he huffs out a laugh he sounds exhausted, and he sounds like Dennis, and it makes relief trickle warmly down from Mac’s chest to his toes. His shoulders relax, the last dregs of tension in his body finally evaporating: he’s right. It’s the house. It’s this fucking house.

"Dude," Mac says. "We’ve gotta find a way out of that bet. This place is killing me."

He scrubs his eyes with his palms. They’ve started to itch, the way they always do when he’s tired. Mac jumps when something brushes his elbow, glancing down, and his eyes catch on the long fingers curled around his arm and get stuck there. He can feel Dennis watching him in the dark.

Mac licks his lips.

"Uh," he says. "What?"

"Nothing," Dennis bites out - which is a blatant lie, since he doesn’t move his hand. Mac shouldn’t pull on the thread of this, he knows that from experience. He should leave it alone.

 _I don’t want to fight anymore,_ that’s what he should say. Or maybe, _you’re annoying the shit out of me,_ or, _let’s call it quits and go to bed before we kill each other._

"Dennis," he says instead, like a warning. 

"I didn’t say anything," Dennis retorts. It’s almost a proper fight again - Dennis's eyes are glittering like a firework that just got lit and Mac just watches him, brow furrowed, until something slots into place - and then he finally catches a glimpse of it, whatever it is Dennis is refusing to say.

It wasn’t always like this. That’s what trips Mac up, keeps him from translating shit properly. Dennis used to give him clues, and now he doesn’t give him anything at all, but he still expects Mac to understand the same way. Dennis is a dick like that.

Mac looks down at the hand on his arm, then back up. He takes a deep breath, steeling himself, before he leans in, just to test his theory. He pauses, his head bowed at an angle that has to be unmistakable, it has to be - and when Dennis doesn’t react, he keeps going until he gets close enough that their noses brush together, ‘til he can feel Dennis breathe, twitching and restless. Mac sighs.

"Jesus, dude," he murmurs, closing the distance. Dennis shudders when their mouths touch. "You could’ve asked -"

"Shut up," Dennis says tightly, "shut up, shut up, _shut up,_ " and if the lights were on Mac knows he’d see a flush staining his throat, up onto his cheeks, this unsteady, blotchy shade of red that Dennis hates. It would be harder to kiss him if the lights were on. He’d be hiding his face, or trying to; ducking low so Mac couldn’t see. But the room is dark, and the house is so quiet. Dennis doesn’t shy away from his hands. Mac cups his face in both of them, thumbing over his cheeks. They’re fever-hot to the touch, that’s the only giveaway. That and his breathing.

"Is this what’s been up your ass all week?" Mac asks him. There’s no heat behind it. Dennis is close now, closer than he’s been in days. He shudders when Mac slides one hand up the back of his shirt like he’s been waiting for it all along.

"No," Dennis mutters.

"You sure?"

"Just - drop it," Dennis repeats, stiff and thick with something, "just shut up and -"

"Okay," Mac says, "okay," and when he ducks his head to kiss Dennis on the mouth, he can feel Dennis's fingers scrabbling at his shoulders, trying to pull him closer, reel him in. He’s gripping at him like he’s under the impression that Mac is about to leave. Which is stupid, because it implies there’s anything capable of making Mac stop doing this once he’s started.

It’s because he thinks too much, Mac decides. You can ruin anything if you think about it too much. Mac knows that, so he tries not to think about this too hard at all; Dennis, who overthinks pretty much every thought he has, no doubt tears their whole situation to shreds on a daily basis. That’s why he ends up like this. Clumsy, like he’s being pulled taut, cheeks burning while he avoids Mac’s eyes. It’s his body overheating from all the dumb thinking Dennis has decided to do. Mac pulls back on a whim, and before he can second guess it he presses his mouth to Dennis's cheek, where the warmth is. Dennis's breathing hitches. Mac pauses, then does it again, lower.

This is something else that wouldn’t be happening if the lights were on. He tried it once - and ended up alone in the kitchen of their old apartment, listening to Dennis's bedroom door slam shut. Usually they reach a compromise where Mac ignores it, the gulf between what Dennis asks for and what he actually wants, because if Mac ignores it, that means Dennis can ignore it, which means it isn’t happening. 

He doesn’t get like this anywhere else. Around anyone else. He can deny it, avoid it, keep it out of sight, but Mac’s known him long enough to say that for certain. And if he thinks about that, sometimes; if it keeps him up some nights, helps him sleep on others, why does that matter? Who gives a shit what they do when they’re alone? It’s nobody’s business but theirs. Everyone’s different when they’re not being watched.

Dennis's fists are clutching his collar, he realizes. They’re clenched, which doesn’t look that comfortable. Mac reaches up in the dark and uncurls his fingers, one by one, careful and slow, fits Dennis's hands into his instead and holds them there, and that’s better. That’s progress. Dennis makes a sound in his throat; makes another one when Mac kisses him, this low, contented hum that Mac tucks away, putting it someplace he can find it later. 

"If you want this," Mac murmurs, taking the risk and pushing closer in the dark, "if you ever - all you have to do is say, Den -"

Dennis groans, strangled, and drags himself away so he can duck his face into his hands. Mac huffs out a laugh, because it’s a pretty funny noise, and Dennis must know it’s not cruel because he laughs too; thin and breathless, but there.

"Stop talking," he orders, muffled behind his palms.

"Okay," Mac says easily. He waits patiently for a few seconds, rocking on his heels, and then he says, "…hey, dude? Dennis?"

"Jesus Christ," Dennis mutters.

"I was just gonna ask you to move your hands," Mac protests, wounded. "Come on, don’t be a bitch about it -" 

The kiss catches Mac off-guard. There’s a foot of space between them until there isn’t: Dennis is demanding, licking into his mouth like he’s trying to prove a point, but he wraps his arms around Mac’s neck too, the way he doesn’t do often. Mac shuts his eyes and noses down his jaw. He can feel it, even if he can’t see it: Dennis's cheeks flushing warm again. He doesn’t mind, though. Not at all.  
  


* * *

_  
[April, 2017](https://greenfinches.tumblr.com/post/181683510042/i-noticed-you-mentioning-somewhere-you-mentioned-a) _  
****

Being awake in the suburbs before daybreak feels a lot like a lucid dream, and also feels nothing like one at all.

Around three decades before, in the middle of summer break, Dennis had picked the lock on the caretaker’s entrance to the languages block just to prove he could. The deserted hallways had been different, somehow: still and quiet, lit only by moonlight, the scuffed linoleum echoing his footsteps into empty space. Certain places are transformed by darkness - St Joe’s, that night, had been one of them. Dennis can remember being struck by an itch at the back of his neck that told him he was peeking into forbidden territory. Not so much abandon all hope, ye who enter here, but more the feeling you get at an airport when it’s quiet. A feeling that says, _this place isn’t real, and neither are you._ The same feeling is creeping up on him now as he sits on the rooftop of Mandy’s rented condo, watching the faint pink of dawn wash over the horizon like a bruise.

It’s 4am, or it was last time he checked. He doesn’t know when that was. He’s perched on a generator that doesn’t seem to have been replaced since the 80’s, considering how much it wheezes whenever he moves. It’s loud and guttural and a welcome respite from the unsettling stillness of suburbia in the early hours, so he doesn’t mind it all that much.

Four in the morning, last time he checked. Brian’s usually awake by six. And Mandy’s coming down off the tail end of night shift, which means this morning is his turn.

Dennis hates his kid. Not intentionally, but he does. He’s loud and needy and he has Dennis's eyes, he shouts when all Dennis wants is quiet and clings when all he wants is space. Sometimes he’ll sit on Mandy’s lap and sleep his way through Goodnight Moon, and sometimes he’ll spend a day screaming and sobbing and writhing on the floor over nothing at all. Dennis doesn’t _want_ to hate him - which is, in all honesty, more than a lot of people get - but he also, increasingly, has times like this, where he doesn’t sleep and sits out in the cold instead, his hands shaking at the idea of going back inside.

Sunlight has started to inch across the rooftop, faint pink giving way to fainter gold. It’s nice. Maybe. If you’re into that kind of thing. Dennis rummages in his pocket for his phone and opens the camera.

He opens a new text message, uploads the photo, and types _‘good morning’._ His thumb hovers the delete button for a long minute before he shuts his eyes, vaguely disgusted with himself (it’s a text, for chrissakes), and sends it anyway. 

He’s not expecting a reply for a few hours - or even at all, for that matter - but half a second later his phone screen lights up in his hand.

It’s the view from his bedroom window - his old bedroom window. The glass is spattered with water droplets and the rain looks so heavy that Dennis can barely make out the hazy outline of the deli across the street.

_‘for you, maybe’_

Dennis rolls his eyes. Leave it to Mac to be a buzzkill over text.

Before he can type out a reply, his phone vibrates again.

_‘how are you?’_

Dennis frowns. This is another particularly Mac-like thing to do - ask a loaded gun question like it’s nothing at all and have the gall to expect an actual answer.

 _‘fine,"_ Dennis says, hoping to god that Mac won’t push for details. _‘how’s the bar?’_

Mac’s typing bubble appears, then disappears. A few seconds later, it pops back up.

_‘same old.’_

Then, a split-second after:

_‘charlie set himself on fire a little bit trying to fix the juke box.’_

Dennis snorts, despite himself.

_‘how much hair did he lose?’_

_‘none. wrecked my shirt when i put him out tho.’_

Once again, Dennis's phone vibrates in his hand before he can type anything else - except it’s not Mac, not this time, just his morning alarm.

5:30, then. Later then he’d thought. He should probably head back downstairs. He gets to his feet reluctantly, hopping off the generator and stretching his legs out.

_‘call later?’_

_‘can’t,’_ is the text he receives in return. _‘sorry bro.’_

Something in Dennis's chest drops, then freezes before it hits the bottom. He stares blankly at the screen as another message arrives.

_‘got a date after work!!’_

Dennis rereads the text five times over, clenches his hand into a tight fist around his phone, and then shoves it into his pocket before he can give into the urge to throw it off the roof.

He isn’t even sure what part of that message offends him the most: the content or the exclamation points. It’s one thing for Mac to drop that on him - that Dennis is being blown off not for an emergency, not even for a scheme, but purely so Mac can hang out with a complete stranger - and another thing entirely for Mac to practically demand his happiness regarding the matter.

*

"So. Tell me about your week."

Dennis raises his eyebrows.

"Really?" he says. "You’re starting with that? Not what I would’ve done but, sure, okay. Let’s _start_ there. Get this whole goddamned show on the road."

Doctor Lane smiles at him. She’s older than he is; he can tell by the faint crows feet at the corner of her eyes and the way her hair is greying at the temples. It’s disgusting, really, the way people let themselves go.

"Excellent." She sounds so genuine that he could punch her. "Why don’t you get me up to speed?"

Dennis forces a smile.

"Can I tell you the truth? I’m only doing this to humour a concerned party. I don’t need to be here - I should be sitting where you are, really, I have a psych degree."

"It says here," Doctor Lane points out, flipping through her notebook, "that you punched a hole in the wall of your partner’s house a week or so ago."

"That was a misunderstanding," Dennis insists, waving a flippant hand. "Complete misunderstanding, I was -"

"‘So intoxicated that he couldn’t walk straight, verbally aggressive, physically intimidating, and threatening suicide," Doctor Lane reads out. she doesn’t sound angry, which is frustrating as all hell, because if she were angry Dennis would have an actual excuse to be angry back. As it is all he can do is glare at her in heavy, mutinous silence, and clench his fists to keep them still.

"We don’t have to talk about that," she says, not unkindly. "Or talk at all. But I think this session would be more beneficial for both of us if we had some form of conversation."

Dennis leans back in his chair. He closes his eyes and breathes out through his nose, and then he stares at Doctor Lane with the cold, dead eyed gaze that usually guarantees him the luxury of being left alone, and has occasionally guaranteed him a restraining order.

She doesn’t look away.

"Mandy and I aren’t together," Dennis mutters. "First of all."

*

"What do you do for work, Dennis?"

"I’m a bartender," Dennis says, before he can stop himself. The words turn acrid in his throat as he adds, stumbling, "was. I was a bartender."

"Your friend told me you lived out of state until recently."

"South Philly," Dennis says. "Yeah."

"Did you live there long?"

"Forty years. Give or take."

Doctor Lane raises her eyebrows.

"That’s a big change."

"Oh, stellar observation work," Dennis drawls.

There’s a brief silence. As it stretches out further it feels like something is crawling up the back of his neck.

"I - it is. I guess. It is a change."

"How does it feel?"

Dennis snorts.

"How do you think it feels?"

"You swapped bartending for fatherhood over the course of a weekend," Lane says mildly. "I think that a little fear or panic wouldn’t be unreasonable."

"I’m not panicking," Dennis snaps.

*

"Come home," Mac says quietly over the phone line. Dennis stays motionless, his eyes shut. He listens to Mac's breathing. 

* * *

  
[August, 2017](https://greenfinches.tumblr.com/post/183594136147/what-abt-103-for-the-prompts-i-can-feel-the)  
  


"What would you say to him?"

Doctor Lane crosses her ankles. Her pen is still, poised over the notebook in front of her. She’s looking at him carefully over the rims of her glasses.

"I don’t know."

His leg is jumping up and down, up and down. He looks out the window at the late afternoon light coming in over the Grand Forks skyline, if you can call it a skyline at all: it’s nothing like the way a real city should look at 5pm. The view from his shitty balcony back in Philly had been better. North Dakota is empty space more than anything else. Even the cities.

"Dennis?"

"Yeah," Dennis says. "Yes. I…"

He tries to swallow around the cotton heaviness in his mouth. His throat clicks.

"If he were here," Lane says, patiently. "And you felt that you were able to speak your mind - not filtering anything, not keeping things back - what do you think you would say, in that scenario?"

"I really don’t see how it matters," Dennis snaps, "since he‘s not -"

She never reacts when he gets like this. Not when he‘s rude - not even when he shouts. She just sits there, waiting the storm out until he comes back down to earth; and it’s humiliating, but he’s oddly thankful for it. The shame keeps him tethered down.

"I’d say he was right."

There’s a short silence.

"Is that all?"

"I’d tell him that I don’t know anyone else who can make me feel this way." Dennis swallows. His mouth feels dry. "And I’d tell him that it scares the shit out of me. Because it does."

There’s another silence, then. A longer one. Dennis looks down at the floor and tries not to think about the sound of Lane’s pen scratching on paper.

"What’s the point of asking me all this?"

"And by this," Doctor Lane says, "you mean…?"

"I mean - shit, last week you kept bothering me about my sister, this week you’re randomly obsessed with my roommate - my _ex_ roommate, by the way, who I don’t even see anymore, so -"

"Would you like a tissue?"

"Stop," Dennis says. His throat has closed up.

He can’t decide if it makes things better or worse: the way she just sits there with the tissue box held out in one hand. She doesn’t react at all when he snatches one up, swiping it over both cheeks, crumpling it in his fist.

"It doesn’t matter," he mutters. "Any of it. So."

"Well, if it did." Doctor Lane is still using that same quiet, even voice. "I’d tell you that I think for many people, admitting something to ourselves is the first part of accepting it. And it’s often the hardest part. Dennis -"

"I want to go now." It comes out less steady than he expects. He clears his throat. "I want - I need some air. Please."

"We still have ten minutes left," Lane says, gently. "But if you like, I can add the time onto next week’s session."

It’s not a clear signal that he can leave, by any means. Dennis doesn’t care. He decides to take it as one anyway. The chair legs screech, skidding backwards as he stands up, and he doesn’t say another word as he tugs the door handle down, walking out into the corridor; down a flight of stairs, then another - pushing open the fire door and taking in deep, ragged breaths.

Somewhere over the horizon, across two rivers and several state lines, Mac is coming home from the gym like he does every Friday. He’ll shower and drip water all over the bathroom linoleum, and he won’t dry his hair. When he falls asleep tonight it will still be a little wet. It makes him a bitch to share a bed with: damp, restless, clinging insistently to whatever’s closest.

Before all this, there was nothing but stars. Before the stars there was nothing at all. The absence of light implies that there is, somewhere, light - or at the very least, the potential for it. The difficult part is figuring out if the light is meant for you.

Dennis scuffs the sidewalk with the toe of his shoe. He clenches his hands until they’re curled into fists, and then he lets them go.


	5. Chapter 5

[ _April, 2018_ ](https://greenfinches.tumblr.com/post/180873068647/macdennis-birthday) ****

Mac’s turning forty one, and he’s doing it alone.

It’s 9pm on a Friday night. He’s sprawled out on the couch with half a bottle of lukewarm vodka, wet hair from the shower, and some shitty reality show on the TV with the volume on low.

_ I Hired A Mistress… And She Eloped With My Wife _ , the banner at the bottom of the screen announces. Mac raises his eyebrows as the mistress-hiring guy in question appears onstage: beet red cheeks, very bald, and scowling.

Mac snorts.

"Can’t exactly blame the wife, bro," he mutters.

_ That’s just sloppy work on his part, _ he can imagine Dennis saying.  _ I mean, what was he expecting - you add a more attractive variable into the mix, of course you’re going to lose out. That’s not cheating, that’s basic math. _

He knows the exact way Dennis would say it: which syllables he’d emphasise, which ones he’d skip over. If he closed his eyes he could probably hear it, too. He’d be judgemental, obviously, a little scathing - but there’d be some bemusement in there, underneath it all. Maybe he’d laugh, take a lazy sip of the beer in his hand.

Mac picks at his cuticles for a second. He sighs. He swears under his breath, picks up the remote, and turns the tv off.

Nobody’s called, which… whatever. Doesn’t matter. They’ve never made a big deal of birthdays, anyway. He thought someone would at least chew him out over the phone for skipping a day of work, but apparently his absence doesn’t mean all that much. There’s a time when it would’ve maybe, but the whole dynamic’s been off since -

Well.

Forty one feels worse than thirty one did. That year had been something approaching decent: waking up to Dennis straddling his hips, heavy and warm, the laughing curve of his mouth pressed up to Mac’s neck.

_ "Morning, birthday boy,"  _ Dennis had said - Mac had rolled his eyes, told him what a cheap line that was - and he’d got a slap on the thigh for his trouble. They’d spent the whole day like that, pretty much, dozing lazily on the sheets and doing very little else, and sometimes Mac wishes he could slip the whole memory into amber. Keep it hidden. Safe and untouched.

Thinking about being thirty one is always a mistake, today especially; thinking about Dennis is always a mistake, today especially, because it isn’t like Dennis has spared him a second thought since walking out. Letting the vodka get this warm, that was also a mistake. This is the running theme of being forty one, apparently: slipping into the same bad habits he’s had for the past four decades of his life, with enough self awareness to feel vaguely ashamed of it.

"Jesus, this is just depressing," Dennis says.

Mac jumps - the vodka bottle jumps with him, upending itself and hitting the table on its way down with a loud smack, bleeding out over the floor.

"I paid five bucks for that," he says, and he has to swallow afterwards around a sudden thickness in his throat that’s making it impossible to breathe, impossible to think, because he’s dreaming again -

"Exactly," Dennis points out, his footsteps drawing closer. He sounds just as irritatingly smug as Mac remembers. It hurts. "Five dollar vodka is hardly birthday booze, now is it?"

Mac manages to resist the urge to look up right until Dennis's arm slides into his field of vision, putting a bottle of scotch down neatly on the coffee table. His long fingers are pale and thin, he’s wearing a blue plaid button-down that Mac’s seen a dozen times over, and Mac’s eyes trail up the length of his forearm, over his chest, before eventually flicking up to his eyes. Dennis looks right back at him.

"You got thinner," Mac says.

"You didn’t," Dennis says dryly. It settles in Mac like a thorn.

"It’s  _ muscle -" _

"Relax," Dennis insists; it’s the voice he’d always use when he cupped Mac’s cheeks in his hands or stroked his hair. He used it a lot when they were thirty one. "Looks good on you."

Mac swallows. He ducks his head, clenching his fists on his lap, and then unclenches them.

"Why are you here?"

When Dennis sits down next to him on the couch Mac’s heartbeat lets itself loose, soaring up unsteadily and then back down. He’s real, then. If the asshole attitude hadn’t given it away the way he smells would have; no dream-sweetness, just cologne mixed with the tang of the cold April air outside, the rustle of his shirt as he settles, the sound of his breathing.

"Happy birthday," Dennis says.

"Why are you -"

"Come on. A guy can’t visit his best friend once in a while?"

He draws it out - lets his voice hang for a moment on  _ best friend, _ coaxing and dangerously soft. Look at me. Pay attention to me.

It’s as good as damning yourself, giving Dennis what he wants when he’s clearly working towards a goal. Mac, unfortunately, has never been very good at denying Dennis what he wants - and when he looks up he finds to his surprise that Dennis's gaze hasn’t wandered. He’s still looking right at Mac. His eyes are very blue.

"So what do you usually do?" Dennis says, not breaking eye contact. "Nice Friday night like this - what’s on the schedule nowadays? Catch me up."

"I think about you," Mac tells him honestly, because if this how Dennis wants to play it, then fuck it. This is how they’ll play it.

Dennis's expression shifts, just for a moment. The facade slips a little. The satisfaction of seeing him unsettled feels more like a headache than anything else. He’s always been like this, for as long as Mac can remember: Dennis is playing a role until he isn’t, cocky and confident until he isn’t, and it doesn’t take much to break the brittle shell of the illusion apart if you know where to touch. He really has gotten thin, Mac thinks, eyeing the hollows of Dennis's cheekbones. The shadows under his eyes look worn and heavy.

"You think about me," Dennis echoes, slowly.

Mac ducks his head with a strange, shaky huff of laughter, picking at a stray thread on his sweatpants. It feels ridiculous to state something this obvious out loud.

"I’m always thinking about you, man."

Dennis's fingers curl abruptly into the collar of his shirt, digging in as he swings one leg over Mac’s thighs, straddling him - he does it without warning or anything approaching finesse, pressing close like he wants to hide here against Mac’s body. Mac grips automatically at the back of his thighs, balancing him and pulling him in. Dennis lets out a sharp, involuntary sort of sound, shuddering; he does it again when Mac puts his mouth to the underside of his jaw and down the line of his neck, and his hips jerk forward.

"Happy birthday," Dennis murmurs, the words brushing hot against Mac’s mouth. He’s trying for seductive. It would’ve worked, maybe, if he weren’t shaking so bad. The bony prominence of his wrists isn’t helping his argument either.

_ What changed, _ Mac wants to say,  _ what happened to you _ \- but he doesn’t let the words get out, because more than anything, even more than answers, he wants Dennis to stay. That’s always the first step. Too much too soon and Dennis will rear back like something wild cornered by a net.

He decides to kiss him instead, his hands still smoothing circles over Dennis's hips. Dennis's mouth is unforgiving and insistent, he keeps biting down on Mac’s bottom lip; but Mac keeps him supported with one hand and lifts the other up to cup his cheek, refusing to take the bait. He remembers how Dennis likes to be kissed. He can give him that, at least. Deliberately, unhurried, with Mac’s tongue heavy in his mouth and Mac’s hands on him, anchoring him in place.

There’s a duffel bag sitting on the floor by the couch, he notes. He pulls away, unable to stop looking now he’s seen it, and Dennis's eyes dart between the bag and Mac and back again.

"Dennis-"

"Don’t," Dennis warns. There’s the line, then. Right where Mac thought it would be.

He’s treading pretty close to it already. If he were a better friend maybe he’d cross over entirely and face the consequences head on - but there’s a selfishness in him that always wins out when it comes to Dennis. Selfishness, selflessness, whichever. Mac’s pretty good at multitasking, he can do both at once.

He presses his lips to Dennis's throat, biting down gently and soothing the redness with his tongue. Dennis lets out an exhale that sounds a little like his name, ducking his head and rocking down on Mac’s thigh - and this, again, Mac knows how to do.

"I thought about you, too," Dennis breathes. Mac can’t help it, the helpless, punched-out sound that draws out of him - he darts forward blindly until he finds Dennis's mouth, kissing him hard as Dennis moves against him again, because it’s this or a shouting match, or needling at him until Dennis snarls and leaves cat scratches down his face, or Dennis walking back out the door.

Dennis exhales against his mouth. He settles his weight until he’s leaning on Mac completely, his shoulders slumped down. Mac readjusts his grip, one hand shifting up and smoothing over his spine, up and down. Dennis makes a short, choked sound. 

Mac hesitates.

"Keep going," Dennis mutters, unclenching one of his hands from Mac’s shirt to slap him gently on the shoulder. He’s still shaking a little. Mac doesn’t say anything, but he starts tracing slow circles again with his free hand, and this time Dennis makes a quiet sort of hum, that sound that usually means he’s half-asleep. He leans his head on Mac’s chest.

Dennis rarely says what he means. To be fair, Mac isn’t the best translator - but he knows enough to understand what Dennis came here to do, and enough to understand what he needs. He knows they’re very different things.

He noses Dennis's hair and breathes him in, eyes closed. Dennis either doesn’t notice or lets him do it anyway, trembling and present and whole.

Forty one’s not so bad, maybe. It has its moments.  
  


* * *

[ _January, 2019_ ](https://greenfinches.tumblr.com/post/617338877862150144/sunidelphia-prompted-post-s14-dennis-breaking) ****

"Sorry it didn’t work out," Dennis says. "With that… with the guy, I mean."

They’re halfway through Raiders of The Lost Ark. Harrison Ford is about to kick the shit out of some assassins and Dennis hates this movie just as much as the last time he saw it, but he went and unearthed the DVD anyway, just this once. Extenuating circumstances, he’d figured. An olive branch to make the next few hours a little less unbearable.

Mac glances at him from the other side of the couch, beer in hand, and shrugs.

"It’s okay," he admits. "I should be the one apologising, dude, we did this whole thing to get you laid."

Dennis's skin prickles unpleasantly, which doesn’t make sense - Mac’s just telling the truth. He decides to ignore it, staring at the TV screen instead.

"You seemed pretty into him," he says stiffly. "That’s all."

Mac hums, sounding unconvinced.

"I guess."

"You  _ guess? _ "

"I don’t know!" Mac protests, exasperated, "I was into the idea, mostly. The… you know. The soulmates thing."

"He had male pattern balding," Dennis points out. "And a wife, and a dead kid, and his style was godawful-"

"All right," Mac groans. "Thanks, Dennis. I get it."

"I just meant you could do better," Dennis finishes sharply. It has the exact opposite effect to the one he was expecting: Mac’s posture goes slack, his eyes go soft with surprise. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something else, then closes it. Worried that Dennis would snap at him, probably. He’s not wrong.

God, none of this is fair. They’re playing the wrong roles - Mac’s supposed to be hurt, why isn’t he hurting? If you spend decades having shitty, meaningless sex, of course you’re going to crave something better at the end of it; and when you don’t get it, when the promise of something more falls through, that should hurt. It’s just logic. Mac’s supposed to be heartbroken. Dennis is supposed to take the lead, put on the right movie, say the right things - they’re going off-script and he doesn’t know how to stop it. He doesn’t know how to shut his mouth.

"Why even say all that shit, then? If you weren’t actually into him?"

"I wanted the scheme to work," Mac tells him slowly. He’s started to frown. "You were the one who said ‘speak from the heart’, or whatever-"

"I meant be honest," Dennis spits out, "not give him a fucking love confession _-"_

"Jesus, Dennis," Mac says. He doesn’t sound frustrated anymore, though - it’s worse than that. He sounds curious. Dennis can feel him staring from the other side of the couch.

"Put the movie back on." Dennis exhales, as measured and careful as he can. "Just… put the movie on. Please."

"Okay," Mac says. Slowly, the way you’d address something cornered. Adrenaline shoots through Dennis's chest and spiders out - but Indiana Jones starts talking again, and Mac looks away, and then he can breathe. Even if it doesn’t feel much like relief.

It could’ve been five minutes or five hours, the space between that moment and the ending credits. The TV was too loud but the silence it’s left behind is somehow worse - his skin is itching. He’s hyperaware of every inch. Mac yawns, cracking his knuckles above his head. In a second he’ll say, you mind if I shower? And when Dennis shakes his head he’ll walk away and disappear behind a closed door. When Mac’s arms fall down to his sides again, Dennis grabs the hand closest to him without thinking.

"Don’t," he blurts out.

Mac goes very still.

The idea of looking at him is terrifying even in theory, so Dennis doesn’t do it. He gets caught up thinking about Mac’s fingers instead. They’re warmer and broader than his. Mac used to bitch about that, didn’t he? A lifetime ago, give or take; cursing when Dennis curled around him from behind, getting the sheets all twisted, pressing his cold palms insistently on Mac’s chest. Waiting for him to cover them with his own and rub the warmth back in, gentle about it even as he cussed Dennis out. If Dennis tightened his grip right now he knows from experience where he’d find Mac’s pulse. Steady and sure like the rest of him.

"Dennis -"

"Don’t." It’s the only word he knows how to say, apparently. "Don’t - you don’t -"

Mac’s hand pulls out from under his anyway. Dennis's stomach drops as Mac turns to face him head on, frowning with that curious look on his face again, and Dennis is still, humiliatingly, stuttering the same word like an idiot, his breath catching wetly in awkward places -

"What?" Mac’s saying, pushing closer into his space now, concern etching a firm line between his brows, "Dennis, what do you -"

Dennis shakes his head numbly. There are too many sentences balled in his throat and it’s hard to breathe around them, it’s making his cheeks hot and damp. He scrabbles for Mac’s hand again and grabs it so tight that his nails dig in - and then he leans forward, putting himself squarely in Mac’s orbit before he has time to regret it, and hopes to God and anyone else who’s listening in on the line that he won’t have to fucking ask. He really, really doesn’t want to ask.

For a long minute, they‘re frozen in stasis. Then, just as Dennis is planning how he’ll bolt -

"Okay," Mac says. He exhales, tugging their hands to his chest, and the couch cushions rustle as he shuffles closer. Dennis shuts his eyes. He can feel Mac’s thumb running over his wrist, back and forth, back and forth. Easing the warmth back in. "Okay."  
  


* * *

_  
[November, 2019](https://greenfinches.tumblr.com/post/178006067387/oooh-ok-um-smile-and-macdennis) _

He’d had a dream once, a long time ago, about waking up here.

It hadn’t been the kind of dream that stuck around once it was over. The details had started slipping the second he woke up - but he knows he’d felt warm and lazy, and that dream-Dennis's sheets had been way softer than his. He’d been about to move but Dennis had pulled him back down, smiling at him in a way that in the real world has only ever happened when he’s very drunk, or very tired, or very high, and just as he’d tilted his head and leaned in close Mac had woken up, panting unsteadily, his mouth buzzing from a kiss he never had.

To be fair, he got some stuff right. He wants that on the record. Dennis's sheets  _ are  _ softer than his. Dennis, just like he had in the strange little world of Mac’s subconscious, is lying on his side facing him, and his curls are all tousled and soft the way Mac knew they would be. He’s got faint wrinkles near his forehead, a handful of gray hairs that he likes to have fits about every so often. Those weren’t in the dream. Mac loves them more because of it.

"What are you doing?" Dennis mutters, rough and low with sleep. His eyes are still closed.  


"Looking," Mac says. He reaches out, runs his thumb over the faint stubble on Dennis's cheek, and the corners of Dennis's mouth twitch up.

"Stop it."

"No." 

Dennis's eyes flick open, caught somewhere between annoyance and something softer. He slides his hands into Mac’s hair, tugging him closer, pulling him down - and this is something else Mac knows. It's as familiar to him as his own heartbeat. The way Dennis's body feels against his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr ♡](http://greenfinches.tumblr.com/)


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